


a picturebook of you and me

by 0neType



Series: light the path home [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Dreamtale, Alternate Universe - Underverse, Angst, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Clothes Sharing, Crying, Deepthroating, Hand Jobs, Internal Conflict, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessiveness, Post-Underverse, Sibling Incest, Smut, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24400135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType
Summary: Dream tries to make sense of things. Nightmare is arguably unhelpful.
Relationships: Dreammare, Nightmare/Dream, Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: light the path home [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1489694
Comments: 56
Kudos: 268





	a picturebook of you and me

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! It's been a while!
> 
> The last few months were an incredibly busy time for me on a personal level so I had very little writing time, but thankfully things have eased off a little so I finally got to sit down and finish this! If all goes well, here's to more in a couple weeks! 👏✨

By the time Dream’s body recovers enough for him to stir awake, it’s well past noon. His internal attunement to light confirms it—he’s been asleep a while. His body is sore in a mixture of having slept more hours than he needed and just from pure physical strain.

He tries to not to focus too much on the second reason.

Dream slowly opens his sockets and lets his eyelight fade back in. He remembers vaguely being brought to Nightmare’s room and, sure enough, he’s greeted with the sight of a wide bed encompassed in purple silken sheets. It brings a smile to his face, Nightmare’s extravagance a familiar and comforting reminder of who his brother is despite what he looks like now. He thinks of his brother lowering him into his mattress and insisting he sleep, his features soft like in his memories. Was it real? His touch had been soft too, far more tender than he’d been moments before, rough where his hands had gripped tight to Dream’s hips. The thought makes heat crawl up Dream’s vertebrae.

He freezes.

Sockets wide, Dream shoots upright and reaches up to his neck. It’s bare. His scarf is conspicuously absent. Soul leaping up in his chest, he pushes back the covers and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He gets to his feet in a rush, teetering as he gathers his bearings. Frantic, he looks around the room, turning back the covers and behind the curtains and in every corner of the closet, but sees no evidence of the bright, yellow material anywhere in sight. His scarf is nowhere to be found.

It’s then that he notices that there’s no hint of yellow _anywhere_ at all. Not even dressing his own body, save for the gold of his crown.

With a start, Dream looks down at himself and realises his clothes have been changed.

He’s wearing pajamas—so richly purple that they’re nearly black. The material is cool and comfortable against his flushed bones. The fabric shimmers in the low light of the room, folds highlighted with the deep colour. Without a doubt, the clothes must belong to Nightmare.

His face colours at the thought. Nightmare must’ve undressed and cleaned him, then put him in some fresh clothing, all while he slept. Dream can hardly fathom how worn out he must’ve been to sleep straight through it all. He hadn’t processed it at the time, but with the way his bones still ache minutely, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.

He clutches the material of the pajama top in a fist right over his beating soul. While it was thoughtful of his brother to clean him up, it shakes him to be without the scarf that has kept him company for these last few centuries. He doesn’t feel right without the weight of it against his bones.

There’s a knock at the door, terse and even, interrupting Dream’s thoughts.

Warily, he calls out, “Who is it?”

“Nightmare felt you wake. I’ve been sent to escort you to him.”

They don’t give their name, but the steady pulsing aura outside the door is familiar to him. It’s Dust, but Dream is no less confused. What does he need an escort for? Dream is more than capable of tracking his brother by aura alone. If he thought Dream might get lost in the miasma of his gloom, surely Nightmare could have left a note with instructions? Why send Dust?

“I’m coming in.”

“No, wait! I—I’m not dressed—” As soon as he says the words, he regrets them.

Maybe he’s reading too much into his own words, but that makes it sound like he’s standing stark naked in his brother’s room. Cheeks burning with the thought, Dream looks around himself again for something to change into but, unsurprisingly, the momentary distraction hasn’t spontaneously made new clothes appear. It’s quickly evident that his choices are either to leave the room in Nightmare’s clothes or leave devoid of any clothing at all.

Really, that leaves only one option, and even that is not much better. Dream makes his way over to the door. “Nevermind, I’m… ready.”

He’s over-thinking this. It’s just clothing. So what if he walks out into the hall wearing something unmistakably Nightmare’s? No one but him is making a big deal out of this.

Dream opens the heavy, lacquered, double-doors to a bored-looking Dust who’s half-turned away and mumbling something under breath. When he catches Dream’s eye, he goes silent. Dream waves awkwardly. Dust doesn’t return the gesture, instead taking a moment to slowly look Dream over from top to bottom then up again, lingering on his state of dress.

“Hmm,” he says, which offers nothing at all but has magic rushing to Dream’s cheekbones anyways. “Follow me.”

Dust turns right, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking easily forward. Dream swallows down his embarrassment and starts after him.

Once the initial awkwardness dies down, he takes a moment to study the monster in front of him. Though Dust doesn’t wear it outside the castle, right now he has a red scarf draped around him, the brightest point in his otherwise drab and dusty attire. His hood is up as it always is; Dream doesn’t think he’s ever seen him without it. It too is covered in a thin, seemingly endless, film of dust that drifts from the hoodie as he walks.

Dream doesn’t know what to make of him.

Unlike Killer who’d gone out of his way to regularly talk to Dream since he’d started staying at the castle, both Dust and Horror have mostly kept their distance. Horror did at least participate in small talk, commenting on the food they ate in the dining hall or lighting up at questions about his brother or his boyfriend, but Dust has stayed especially reclusive. More often than not, he could be found chattering to himself, staring into the space above his shoulder with a grin on his face.

Dream’s soul twists with pity at the thought.

“What?”

He stumbles to a stop behind Dust. “H-huh?”

“You were staring at me,” Dust says, looking at Dream over his shoulder. The blue within the red of his left eye is cold and chilling. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Dream pipes up, quick, “Just… looking, is all.”

There’s a lengthy pause, long and silent enough that Dream can feel sweat break out over the back of his bare neck. What he wouldn’t give to have the comforting presence of his cape right now. Dust’s gaze on him is piercing and perceptive. But then, he snorts and turns away, dismissive.

He starts to walk again.

After a beat, Dream follows.

The rest of the walk goes without issue and within a few more minutes, they reach the large doors of Nightmare’s study. Dust pauses in front of them, moving to make space when Dream stops beside him. For some odd reason, Dream’s soul pounds abnormally fast at the idea of pushing through those doors and greeting his brother on the other side of them.

“Good luck,” Dust says, and Dream startles at the sound of his monotone.

“O-oh, uhm, thank you.”

Dust shrugs. “You’ll need it. Nightmare’s been in a bad mood since you left with Cross in the morning.”

The reminder of the earlier events of the day has Dream squirming. He’d found out already what his brother’s ‘bad mood’ amounted to, the all over ache in his body throbbing like a reminder. Hearing Cross’ name also makes him wince. He can only hope the other monster didn’t hear anything, but he’s not naive enough to believe in it fully.

“Huh.”

The sudden knowing in Dust’s voice makes Dream meet his gaze. He watches as Dust’s eyelights drift down to his neck. Yet again, he wishes he had something to cover up with, his bare bones feeling hot under the scrutiny. The gleam in Dust’s eyes says far more than his words do, as does the slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Nevermind. Paps said you already handled that.”

Somehow, it’s the most chilling thing Dust has ever said to him.

Dream’s eyes flick over the top of Dust’s right shoulder, like looking closely enough will reveal the phantom to him. He knows of Dust’s timeline, knows that the apparition Dust sees is only a manifestation of his guilt, not real at all, but somehow his soul pounds all the same. How else could Dust have known? He hadn’t been anywhere nearby at the time, Dream’s sure of it. If he had been, Dream would have felt him approach, his negativity distinguished from the others in a sharp haze of apathy. And there’s no question that he _does_ know. That look in his eyes could mean nothing else.

Face burning, a permanent feature since he woke up apparently, Dream turns towards the doors and away from Dust’s penetrating eyes. Dust cackles as Dream ignores him and pushes the ornate doors open and walks through, his voice echoing in Dream’s skull even after the click signals the entry closed behind him.

He takes a second to ground himself, to take a moment and collect his racing thoughts, before turning around.

Immediately, his breathing hitches.

The library is beautiful.

The ceiling is vaulted, high and intricate with patterns that crisscross in the architecture above him. The shelves are carved into the walls, floor to ceiling, stacked through with colourful books, thick and thin bindings alike. There’s an order to them, a sort of maintained chaos that is so very familiar to Dream, stacked neatly on the shelves as they are with the flickering torch light lighting up their leather-bound spines.

It’s breathtaking.

It’s every bit the sort of place that Nightmare used to whisper to him about on those late nights so long ago, with the two of them tucked underneath the stars. His face would flush with the purple of his magic, eyes alight with a giddiness that was always absent during the day. Even back then it had made Dream’s thoughts stutter, affection for his brother so deep that he didn’t dare interrupt his fantasizing.

The Nightmare of now stands at the end of the room, leaning against a large ebony desk, its surface polished and gleaming. There are expansive windows behind him from which the perpetual moonlight shines through, though only in the gaps where his brother has left the curtains open.

“Dream,” his twin greets, moving from the desk. As he does so, Dream spies the shock of yellow revealed in his shadow and makes a strangled noise at the sight of his scarf. Nightmare hears it, if the way his eye flicks back towards it is any indication. However, he makes no mention of it as he turns his attention back on Dream, leisurely walking forward another few paces. “I trust you rested well?”

He fumbles with his words, unsure of what to say. “Yes, I’m… it was… nice.”

It’s obvious that Nightmare has brought him here to finish their earlier talk, but now that Dream is face-to-face with his brother, he’s not entirely sure how to start. He can’t focus, still peeking back at his scarf with longing, eyelights darting back and forth from it to his brother’s approaching form. Maybe the best thing would be just to ask Nightmare for it? Get it out of the way before moving onto trickier topics.

“Brother, I—”

“You look good,” Nightmare murmurs, approving as he continues walking closer. “It’s a perfect fit on you.”

Dream flushes, suddenly unable to broach the topic, tongue-tied by the compliment, “We’re, um… we’re the same size, so…”

His brother hums something non-committal at that, and then, with a few more simple steps, Nightmare is close enough to touch, standing directly in front of him. His teal eye roves over Dream’s form, drinking in the sight of him, slow and savouring. Dream’s soul sputters in his chest. He resists backing himself into the doors behind him. It’s not an urge borne of fear, but of a deep shame that has been growing steadily over every interaction between them these last few days.

Nightmare’s hands reach out and rest on his shoulders, subtly bringing Dream in closer. His brother’s boney palms are cool to the touch, a chill to them even with the fabric in between their bodies. As he slides them down Dream’s arms, rubbing his thumbs over his humeri, Dream shivers. When Nightmare runs them back up, he stops and stares at Dream intensely.

It occurs to him then that Nightmare might want to kiss him.

Despite the things they’ve already done—kissing the very _least_ of what’s included—the idea of it happening right now, alone in this grand room while Dream wears his twin’s clothes, makes him squirm. Nightmare must read it in his expression, because his own closes up and he leans a little away, his grip slackening. A reprieve. They stare at each other a moment longer before Nightmare reaches up with his right hand and grazes it briefly along Dream’s bare neck.

“It coloured nicely,” he murmurs, and too late Dream remembers the mark his brother bit into his vertebrae.

With a start, he realises that it must’ve been what Dust had been staring at earlier. The embarrassment sinks further into him at the notion. Even if wearing Nightmare’s clothes could’ve been shrugged off, the addition of his brother’s possessive behaviour and the bruise on his neck tell a story far closer to the truth.

Reflexively, Dream slaps his hand over the mark, soul pounding. Nightmare’s eyelight flicks up to meet his gaze from where he’s still bent over to peer at his now-covered neck. He raises a brow bone, the perfect image of amusement. Even when he straightens his posture once more, he doesn’t look away from Dream, a smile hidden in the gleam of his eyelight.

“You can have your scarf back when you leave.”

Dream wants it now more than ever. If only so that he can cover up the vivid brand on his bones, visible for all the castle to see. There would be no question of who left it, not when Nightmare’s aura oozes with a sense of smug satisfaction, even when it’s just the two of them there to witness it. The fact that Nightmare is offering his scarf back at all is a kindness Dream can’t help but question.

If he meant to give it back anyways, why did Nightmare take it in the first place? Furthermore, where are the rest of his clothes? He can’t see them in a pile with his scarf, so his brother must be keeping them elsewhere. Did he really expect Dream to keep wearing Nightmare’s clothes until he decided otherwise?

He wants to ask, but as his brother turns away and begins to walk back to his desk, the courage borne of curiosity within him dies as quickly as it came. He stands in place, wordless and still, wondering where to go from here. It’s only when Nightmare takes pity on his listless state, beckoning him forward, that Dream steps properly into the library, walking past the shelves and up to his brother’s desk.

“Have you talked to your friends recently?” Nightmare asks as Dream comes to a stop a few feet from the front edge of sleek, black wood. His eye is downcast as he sorts through the folders on his desk, a focus to his methodical working that pangs in Dream’s soul with bittersweet nostalgia. Dream watches as his brother files loose papers, humming to himself as his eye flicks from one neatly handwritten line to the next. “Blue, or maybe Ink?”

He doesn’t know why Nightmare is asking.

“Yes,” he says. Simple and succinct. It’s safer to give his brother no more than he asks for until he knows exactly what Nightmare’s angle is here. And yet, even in thinking so Dream feels guilty for doubting his motives. Nightmare has been nothing but hospitable since he’s gotten here.

His twin makes a vague noise of assent before asking for clarification, “In person?”

Dream hesitates.

It’s enough to make Nightmare look up from his papers. His eye meets Dream’s in a single, clear line. They watch each other silently, Dream struck bare by the unavoidable insight his brother must garner from that one look alone. They’ve always been able to read each other plainly.

Nightmare smiles.

“No need to be so suspicious, brother. Is it so hard to believe that I’m looking out for your best interests? Times have changed, as you’re often so keen to remind me.” The sharpness at the edges of his grin makes Dream shift uneasily. “When did you last speak to them, face-to-face?”

No matter how he spins it, Dream can’t see a reason for Nightmare to ask this. His brother doesn’t stand to gain anything from the knowledge, so why does he want to know at all? Is he simply just… curious?

“Well,” Dream starts, “They can’t come here so… I guess I haven’t seen them in person since I arrived at the castle.”

Nightmare’s expression is unreadable, though it’s clear that he’s hanging on to Dream’s every word, listening closely and analysing what he says, bit by bit. “And you haven’t left the castle even once in the interim? Lies about sleeping over at Blue’s notwithstanding, of course.”

Dream flushes at the callback to his earlier deception. “No. I haven’t.”

Nightmare doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t tease or prod at that statement any further.

Dream is at a loss as to why he’s being asked any of this at all. It’s out of character for Nightmare to be interested in Dream’s friendships. Even before corruption, his brother had flinched away from Dream’s exuberant stories of the many adventures he’d had with friends he’d made in the village beneath their hill.

Though he knows now that perhaps back then it was for a far more sinister reason.

“Cross wants to take you with him when he leaves.” The non sequitur jars Dream.

 _Cross_.

Dream hasn’t thought about him properly since Dust brought him up. Reminded now, his face warms. There’s no way Cross didn’t overhear what happened in the hallway, only feet away from his bedroom door. He must’ve; a solo audience to Dream begging for his brother, unabashed and eager to take whatever Nightmare gave him.

He doesn’t know what’s worse—the thought of having to face Cross again after all this, or the fact that, beyond the obvious embarrassment, there’s still a lingering thrill when he remembers the way Nightmare kept him pressed into the wall, trapped there for anyone passing to easily spot.

“Despite the demonstration, he still doesn’t seem to get that you’re mine.”

At the very least his brother doesn’t pretend that he never meant for Cross to hear. And yet, somehow still Dream can’t bring himself to mind. Instead, his focus is entirely entranced by the way Nightmare’s hands move as he finally finishes sorting the last of his papers. His folders are all stacked neatly, and the desk is cleared and organised. Nightmare himself is staring directly at him, pride and possession in equal measures. The confidence in his posture is magnetic and alluring.

In a way that is quickly becoming familiar, Dream feels a rush of heat shoot down to his pelvis. Only this time, there’s a disquieting twinge of shame alongside it. An internal admonishment.

Ultimately, it’s that self-reproach that prompts him to speak. “Nightmare…”

Even to his own hearing he sounds wary. Contrite in the lingering pause. Nightmare is quick to notice, his teal eyelight glimmering dark as his mouth turns subtly down at the corners.

“Having second thoughts, brother?”

If only it were that simple.

Dream’s false gut rolls, his soul twisting. He doesn’t think he can explain this sudden apprehension to Nightmare. How can he when he can barely understand it himself? So much has happened in only a handful of days and it’s too much, too fast, for him to process with any reliability.

Still, it’s obvious that his brother expects him to say something. So Dream tries.

“It’s just… where are we even going with all of this, Night?”

The question hangs between them, silence on either side. As the seconds pass and his brother doesn’t respond, Dream’s anxiety over the situation climbs. He drops his gaze, toying with the hem of Nightmare’s sleep-shirt in his nervousness as he forces himself to continue speaking.

“After everything that happened, with Ink and with the multiverse losing itself, I was relieved to have you by my side.” Getting those words out is a struggle, especially with his brother so intently observing him, his gaze a chill even when Dream isn’t looking up to see it. But once he starts, he finds that the words keep spilling out, his mouth moving before he consciously decides to say a thing at all. “I was so grateful that we put aside centuries of fighting and talked to each other. _Really_ talked, not jeers in between fighting like we’d done for so long. And then, at the end of all that, when you offhandedly invited me to visit the castle, I honestly couldn’t believe it.”

Nightmare is so quiet that Dream can hear the steady drip-dripping of his form, a low, barely-there sound that so often remains muted in the background.

“I knew I was pushing my luck when I asked to stay. I didn’t actually think you would accept,” Dream laughs, his whole body trembling with it in apprehension, “The way you thought it over, all serious and brooding, I was sure you were going to say no. I was _so sure_ you were going to kick me out and scoff and say that, just because we worked together once, didn’t mean you were willing to cast aside every fight before then.”

In the momentary pause, he finds the courage to meet Nightmare’s gaze again, a wobbly smile working its way onto his face.

“But you agreed. You said yes. And I was so _happy_ , Night.”

He can’t stop himself.

He doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but he can’t put on the breaks. This isn’t even the conversation he wanted to have in the first place—it has nothing to do with why Nightmare took his clothes or his cape. It doesn’t even have anything to do with his original query; why did Nightmare keep his crown? Why did he keep a relic from their past that Dream was so sure he wanted to forget?

“I’ll admit that I was afraid to leave.” Nightmare flinches, but it barely registers to Dream as the words continue to tumble out of him. “I didn’t want to shatter this tentative truce we’d reached. I didn’t want to exit the castle, this universe, and then find out I couldn’t come back… that you were done with whatever reparations you were allowing to happen between us and you were ready to return to what it had been like between us before the X-Event. I was _scared_ , Night. So scared to lose you all over again.”

Nightmare is uncomfortable, that much Dream can tell with ease. It’s evident in the tense line of his shoulders and the hard set of his jaw. His tentacles are rigid behind him, curled minutely over his form like protection from an unseen foe. Still, Dream can’t bring himself to cut his rambling short.

“I wanted… I _want_ to be close to you, brother. I want things to be like they used to be.”

He sees the way his twin clenches his fists at that, some imaginary landmine that Dream has tripped over but is too busy barreling forward to wait and see the explosion for. Not now when he finally knows what he wants to say at the end of this impromptu monologue. The question he wants to ask; the fallout be damned.

“So what is this, Nightmare?” Dream gestures between the two of them, helpless. “What is _this_ supposed to be? What are we doing here exactly?”

Nightmare keeps his eye focused solely on Dream, wordless and unblinking.

As Dream’s been speaking, Nightmare’s aura has steadily been growing thicker. And yet, Dream has no idea as to the exact nature of how Nightmare is feeling. The dense miasma of emotion is a mystery, guarded by layers of protection that he can’t break past. Even now, it swells, fit to burst.

Dream continues to prod at it.

“Is this supposed to be an… an intimate relationship?”

Saying it outloud feels like he’s exposing too much of himself. It’s like he can feel the ghost of Nightmare’s touch against his bones even while just standing here, alongside the soft pants of Nightmare’s breath down his neck. Dream’s soul pounds in his chest, his cheeks warm.

“We’re brothers—”

Nightmare snaps.

“We’ve already fucked twice and you’ve chosen _now_ to be torn up over this?” He bites through his caustic words with enough force that Dream has to resist taking a step back.

“Nightmare, no, I didn’t—”

“Since you’re so goddamn obsessed with the past, why not take a second to remember that we were never _born_ in the first place?” Nightmare spits, “Being created at the same time doesn’t make us actual brothers past whatever fanciful scenario your imagination crafts.”

The words ring false in Dream’s head. He wants to protest, but Nightmare is nowhere near done with his tirade, anger pouring off of him in powerful waves that would make a lesser being nauseous. Dream himself is not entirely unaffected. His soul pulses weakly at the overflowing negativity, shaking beneath his ribs as Nightmare’s fury roars louder.

“Things are never going to be the same between us, Dream. It’s never going to be ‘like it used to be’.” Nightmare mocks him with such vitriol that Dream winces, recoiling. “Your precious ‘older’ brother? The one who let people walk all over him? That let them hurl abuse at him without retribution because he wanted to be kind and forgiving? Because he didn’t want to worry you? Because he thought he could _handle_ it?”

It hurts.

It hurts listening to this. To be reminded of every sign Dream had overlooked. Of how much his brother had suffered and how quietly he’d hidden it away behind a soft smile, all without Dream double-checking once to make sure he was really alright. All the bruises and scrapes and scars Nightmare had laughed off and Dream had naively accepted.

Of all the ways he had failed to protect the one person who mattered most to him above all else.

“He was _wrong_ , Dream. He _couldn’t_ handle it. He was a fool, and he paid for it dearly.” Nightmare’s chin tips up, proud and challenging. “The brother you knew is dead and he’s never coming back.”

It’s numbing, twisting up his soul in a fierce knot that aches with grief and loss, choking him utterly of all words. It’s all Dream can do to resist pressing a hand over his chest to soothe the pain, knowing it would do nothing to ease a hurt so deeply entwined into his being.

Nightmare’s gaze on him is surgical, a precision strike on his most tender regrets. “From that sickness, and rot, and carnage, _I_ arose. And I will never, _ever_ , let anyone do that to me ever again.”

There’s a pause as Nightmare lets his diatribe sink in. Dream’s false throat feels thick, a lump lodged in it that he can’t swallow down. His sockets prickle with unshed tears, his emotions fragile. He takes a few shaky breaths to ground himself, the negativity thick in the air around them. It’s difficult, but he embraces it all the same.

It’s the least he can do after all this time.

He’s not sure if Nightmare takes pity on the broken picture he makes, but slowly the hostile aura starts to drain and Nightmare speaks again, voice hushed.

“If the only reason you’re worried about us fucking is because we’re brothers, then don’t be.” His anger has cooled enough that his tone is almost bored, though Dream knows Nightmare well enough to see the fracture lines where it’s forced. “I might as well be someone else entirely.”

Dream’s soul stutters.

The wrongness of that statement shakes him to his core. “Don’t say that.”

Nightmare’s mouth is a stern and unimpressed line sliced across his face.

Dream shakes his head.

“Please. _Please_ , don’t say that.”

It doesn’t matter that they were never truly born. It doesn’t matter that they’re more or less spirits bound to bodies cloned from the same skeletal source, rather than blood and bone related.

The memories Dream shares with Nightmare span a more than a lifetime.

They were always side-by-side, right from their earliest days. Chasing each other through fields of flowers, giggling and tripping over their own feet. They would fall into a pile together after an exhausting day of nothing at all, learning the world through exploration and touch. And then at night, they would find each other’s hands in the dark as the stars shone overhead, whispering secrets under breath, only to wake up in a tangle of limbs, warm and sleepy-eyed and smiling.

It plays out like a picture-book in his head—

Squirreling away treats from villagers to share with Nightmare later. Being read to under the cool shade of the Tree, sockets drooping with lazy relaxation. Burying his face in Nightmare’s chest as a storm raged around them, listening to him hum and feeling the comfort of the cape wrapped around his shoulders.

Content, always, just to have this, so long as it meant being together.

“Nightmare,” Dream says, and still the memories flash inside his head.

Waking up after a century imprisoned in stone and feeling, for the first time ever, truly alone. Remembering the cries of the one he loved, begging him not to forget him. Searching restlessly for his missing half only to discover the true extent of what he’s lost. Fighting tooth and nail against the being he still cares for more than anyone or anything else, and being beaten back with a viciousness he can’t remember seeing from him before.

And through it all, wondering if he’ll ever be able to mourn when hope burns its way through his body like molten iron.

But no, it’s quickly evident that this is the new norm. Searching and fighting. Hurting and healing. Rinse and repeat until each day blurs into the next. And despite it all—despite the angry words and the dangerous fights, the broken bones and ugly arguments—Nightmare never finishes the job.

Over and over again, Dream is allowed to escape; to live; to continue fighting.

They may be on opposite sides, but they’re still two halves of a whole, incomplete without each other. Nightmare feels the same, if the way he never once scorns their past together is any evidence at all. He never renounces their age-old bond. He never acts like it didn’t mean just as much to him, once upon a time ago.

Dream meets Nightmare’s gaze steadily, his words soft and honest.

“You’re my brother in every way that counts.”

The silence that follows his proclamation is heavy.

Seconds tick past and Nightmare says nothing to refute the statement. Instead, there’s a resignation in his eye and in the slump of his shoulders. Dream longs to reach out and smooth a hand over them, to reassure him, but the lingering strain of the moment keeps him still.

“So what then?” When Nightmare finally speaks up, averting his gaze and looking down at his desk, still doing nothing to deny Dream’s words. He doesn’t know if the rough, pained quality to Nightmare voice is real or his own fanciful imagination. “Do you want to stop? Are you going to leave with Cross?”

There’s a part of him that’s immensely grateful that his brother asked two questions instead of just the one. He’s still far too conflicted to give a straight answer to the former, but it’s easier to answer them both under the guise of the second.

“I didn’t say that…”

The moments continue to pass without a word. Neither of them know quite what to say. There’s a steady tap-tapping of Nightmare’s phalanges drumming lightly along the surface of the desk as he thinks. When he finally looks up, there’s a measure of resolve in his expression and in the way he moves, working around the desk and towards Dream once more. He comes to a stop less than a foot away, his tentacles lowered and his eye searching. Dream meets his gaze evenly.

“You must be exhausted.” Nightmare raises a hand and brushes the back of his knuckles down the side of Dream’s face. His brother’s touch on him makes Dream’s face heat, his soul pounding anew, but for an entirely different reason than earlier.

“Not really. I’ve been sleeping a lot, it seems like.”

Nightmare smirks at him, knowing, but otherwise doesn’t say a word. Instead, he continues to touch Dream, running his bare hands along his face, his neck, and his shoulders like he’s memorizing the layout of his body by feeling it all over. The boney flat of his palms slide down Dream’s arms and onto his hips before circling back and sliding up his spine. It makes him shiver, but he doesn’t stop his brother, silent as Nightmare explores his body.

It goes on for a bit till Nightmare suddenly pauses. There’s a brief moment of stillness in the air around them before Nightmare breaks it with a whisper.

“... is this okay?”

It’s so quiet and so unsure, it very nearly doesn’t sound like him at all.

Wordless, Dream nods.

The touches resume, and the soft silk of Nightmare’s clothes brush gently along Dream’s bones as his brother’s hands wander. There’s a faint tremble to his own phalanges as well. A yearning rises within him, to reach out and touch Nightmare too, to study this form he’s seen for almost four hundred years but never had the opportunity to appreciate. But he can’t make himself move, can’t overcome his inability to admit what he wants even though the frustration of holding back twists wrong in his soul.

Finally, Nightmare’s fingers smooth over his teeth, gentle. Following it, Nightmare presses his mouth over Dream’s and kisses him. It comes as a relief. Kissing Nightmare back is easy, no worries about initiating anything. The kiss is chaste, very nearly tender. His brother doesn’t try to pry his jaw open and push his tongue in, content to linger just like this with the two of them pressed chest to chest.

When at last Nightmare breaks away, his focus is intent and his words sharp and clear.

“Do you want me, Dream?”

Yet again, Dream is frozen in place, unable to voice an answer. Because how can he? How can he ever admit such a thing? It’s far simpler when Nightmare drags him into the moment, all pointed grins and leering gaze. Dream follows after him, like he’s done for centuries now, along for the ride as Nightmare spins him into a situation he can’t escape. It’s easier that way.

His twin doesn’t immediately notice his hesitance, walking backwards until his sacrum hits the edge of the desk. He brings Dream along as he does it, leading him by the collar of his sleep shirt. The sideways smile slanting across Nightmare’s mouth is attractive in a way that curls hot in Dream’s soul. He stumbles forward as Nightmare moves further back still, pushing into the desk until he’s seated on top of it and Dream is situated right in between his legs. Again, Nightmare tugs on his lapels, stealing another kiss with a self-satisfied smirk.

“I’ve been unfair to you, brother.” And, oh, doesn’t it seem like Nightmare savours that word on his tongue? Like he rolls it around his mouth and enjoys the way it sounds following Dream’s admission that he’s never thought of Nightmare as anything but. “I’ve taken you over and over and not given myself in return.”

Nightmare leans back and purposefully moves his femurs apart a little further. Dream’s face heats at the implication and burns further still when Nightmare pulls him ever closer. Like this, pressed up together, the soft give of Nightmare’s magic is obvious under the press of Dream’s pelvic bone.

“Allow me to correct that by spreading myself open for you.”

The bolt of arousal those words shoot through Dream are undeniable. He wants it. Nightmare looks perfect leaning back like this, a softness to his half-lidded gaze and the startings of a teal flush to his face. It's a vulnerability that his brother never shares with anyone, and yet he’s shown it to Dream. It feels intimate, like trust. Dream aches for it. The yearning hurts, a jumble of emotions in his chest, but still Dream can’t make himself move.

Yet again, it feels too much like making a formal decision about what this is; about what they’re doing together and what this relationship between them is becoming. And Dream can’t—he _can’t_ make himself take that responsibility. Not when he still doesn’t have the words to explain it to himself.

His hesitance is difficult to hide, awkward silence stretching on between them. As the seconds pass, the smile on Nightmare’s face slowly falls. His brother’s aura grows more reserved, closing off little by little as he straightens where he sits.

“Is there a problem…?”

It’s easier when Nightmare takes control. It’s easier to tell himself that he’s just going along with what his brother wants, pulled along as Nightmare leads.

It’s easier than admitting he wants this, just as badly as his brother does.

Trying to salvage the situation, Dream laughs, though it comes out stilted and wrong. With a shrug, he forces a stiff smile. “Just thinking that I… that maybe I could taste you instead?”

There’s a part of him that knows Nightmare can read his reservations from this alone. In fact, his brother takes one look at him and knows exactly what Dream is trying to do, that much is evident in the flash of hurt that crosses his face before Nightmare smooths it back. Dream’s soul squeezes. It makes him sick with guilt to brush away Nightmare’s vulnerability like this, but the alternative looms like an impassable mountain before him.

The mood in the room shifts. The smile returns to Nightmare’s face, but it’s no longer with the ease of earlier. There’s something caustic in it.

“Then by all means, brother,” Nightmare drawls, “Get down on your knees.”

The order feels like deliverance, and Dream falls to his knees almost immediately. They clack against the marble floors, loud in the quiet, but discomfort is a distant thought when the memory of how soft and warm Nightmare’s magic was is so clear in his head. Dream’s own magic responds in kind, swirling heavy and hot in his pelvis, throbbing in desire to take shape despite having only gotten off hours ago.

On top of the desk, Nightmare hooks his thumbs underneath the elastic of his shorts. Dream’s tongue forms in anticipation, saliva slick. He moves in closer, enough that he’d be able to bury his mouth into Nightmare’s magic with ease.

When Nightmare’s dick presses up against his teeth, Dream stares at it, confused.

“Is there an issue?” There’s an undercurrent of something bitter and mean in Nightmare’s voice.

Dream’s soul sinks. He gestures vaguely, face golden with embarrassment. “N-no, I just thought…”

“Ahh, I understand your bewilderment,” Nightmare says with mock understanding, “Don’t worry. Since you weren’t interested in my earlier offer, I thought I’d let you taste something you were far more... _familiar_ with.”

Regret curls in Dream’s gut, a sense of loss settling deep within him.

How must it have felt for Nightmare? To open himself up enough to propose that Dream lead and to be rejected instead? But there’s nothing he can do or say to explain himself or fix this, not when he wouldn’t do anything differently if given the chance. He bites back his apologies, meeting Nightmare’s impassive gaze. Nightmare’s mouth curls down, unsatisfied.

“Well then, are you ready?”

Dream swallows in anticipation. He takes a better look at Nightmare’s cock, his cheeks flushing with warmth at the thickness of it. Already, there’s a phantom throb in his newly-conjured throat as Dream imagines what it would be like to choke with it inside of him.

“Yes…”

Wasting no time, Nightmare works his cock in a few even strokes before guiding it properly to Dream’s half-parted mouth. When the tip of it presses against his teeth, Dream lets his jaw fall slack and his tongue go flat, wet and waiting. His throat feels tight, nervous anticipation winding him up.

Despite the underlying fear that he’s upset his brother irreparably, Nightmare isn’t any rougher with him than usual. In fact, he’s downright careful with how he pushes himself into Dream’s mouth, taking it one slow inch at a time. Dream’s sockets close with a shuddering breath as Nightmare stops partway in, the head of his dick nearly breaching the back of his throat.

Shakily, Dream reaches a hand down towards his sleep pants. His own magic has long since taken form, arousal shaping itself into a half-hard cock. He palms himself through the silken fabric, closing his mouth around Nightmare’s length to stifle the moan that works its way out.

His brother tastes like salt and cider, familiar to him now after their prior engagements. Still, Dream isn’t prepared for how overwhelming it is to feel him throb inside his mouth, the heat and weight of his cock making his own dick pulse in sympathy. He reaches a free hand up and grips Nightmare from the base, slowly pulling him out while laving his tongue along the underside of his erection and sucking gently.

There’s a faint pop as Dream frees Nightmare’s dick, then an even quieter inhalation of air before he puts the tip back in his mouth and swirls his tongue over it. At the same time, he pushes his left hand into his clothes and firmly wraps his phalanges around his magic. He strokes his length to full hardness, still sucking on Nightmare’s head and dipping his tongue along the slit.

“Dream,” Nightmare says in a breathy sigh, “Look at me.”

He does, his sockets fluttering open. His brother’s teal eye glows bright against the dark of his form, watching Dream closely. A hand presses at the back of his skull, not too hard, and Dream takes Nightmare back in. When the pressure eases, he pulls back again. Over and over he repeats the motion, until he’s working his mouth steadily back and forth over his brother’s cock, getting it slick with spit and precome.

“Good boy.”

The praise makes his face burn, especially with the soft, hazy way Nightmare watches him.

He can’t help but imagine that look even hazier, Nightmare with his back pressed into the desk as Dream kept him bodily pinned. He wonders how deeply his brother’s face would flush, if the teal would reach all the way down his neck as Dream pushed into him. His cock throbs at the thought and Dream squeezes it, stroking the length as he moans around the dick in his mouth.

His next breath along Nightmare’s cock is shaky, his fantasies growing as he pictures how easy it would be to slide into his brother’s plush magic. Nightmare would be so wet for him, dripping as Dream pressed into him fully, their magic slotting perfectly together. He’d take his time, edging Nightmare to the cusp of orgasm, enjoying the way his pussy clenched around his cock. He’d whisper praises as Nightmare gasped, watching that pretty teal glow even fiercer.

He squeezes his sockets shut, groaning. The vibration makes Nightmare inhale sharply, and Dream doubles down, sucking in earnest around his brother’s cock, using his tongue to tease the head as his fist works around the shaft. It pulses under his deft touch, leaking more and more of Nightmare’s taste into his mouth. He feels his brother’s hand cup the side of his face and he leans into it, a welcome pressure.

“Dream…”

A thumb ghosts under his socket. It’s followed by a whisper of something Dream can’t make out. He opens his eyes again but Nightmare is done speaking, looking down at him with his mouth parted and lowly panting instead. He makes a questioning noise, but his brother doesn’t acknowledge it, instead moving both his hands to the back of Dream’s skull.

In anticipation of what’s to come, Dream flattens his tongue and opens his throat as much as he can. Nightmare allows him enough time to do so, waiting before he slowly pulls Dream’s head further down his length. He goes deeper and deeper, until his cock breaches Dream’s throat fully and his nasal aperture is flush against his brother’s pubis. Dream swallows, reflexive, and Nightmare groans aloud from the way Dream’s throat tightens around his cock at the motion.

Dream’s own dick jumps at the sound, leaking and aching for more. He works his fist around his length again, rubbing his thumb under the sensitive head, shivering at the stimulus. His sockets start to water at the strain as Nightmare rocks his hips, stretching out his throat even further. The grinding motions make him choke, spit welling up in his mouth and dribbling out around Nightmare’s cock.

“I’m close,” his brother warns, breathless.

He can’t really respond with his mouth full, but he answers by pressing closer and taking Nightmare just the barest bit further. His sockets well up with tears but he keeps at it, his throat convulsing. Nightmare swears under breath, his grip faltering as phalanges spasm.

“Oh shit—oh _fuck_ , Dream—”

He holds Dream tight to his pelvis as he rocks his hips up once, then twice. Dream gurgles, every noise a mess, his fist pumping his length faster. The slick sounds thunder in his skull, and when Nightmare finally grinds the head of his cock against the back of his magic one last time before shuddering with orgasm, Dream can’t help but whimper at the pulsing feeling. He thumbs at the head of his dick, pressing into the slit and then he’s coming too, just moments after his brother.

Nightmare continues to spill into him and Dream desperately tries to swallow as much as he can, sensitive and aching. His brother’s cock is still twitching as he pulls Dream’s skull back, the taste of him everywhere in his mouth. Dream takes a shaky breath in, gasping, and blearily looks up at his brother.

“N… nightmare…” Dream starts, though he’s not quite sure what he’s going to say.

It turns out not to matter anyways, because Nightmare presses a finger to his mouth. “Shh, brother.”

His twin then dismisses his magic before lowering himself back down to the floor behind his desk. As he begins to rummage through the drawers, Dream uses the opportunity to fall back on his hands, relaxing his posture so he’s no longer on his knees. He winces at the feeling of cooling come along the inside of his pants. Now that the glow of climax is fading away, he feels uncomfortably messy.

Just as he’s about to speak up and ask Nightmare if he can shower, his brother returns.

“Here,” Nightmare says, and Dream stares uncomprehendingly at the glass in front of him. There’s some clear liquid inside of it, colourless and odourless. When he makes no move to take it, Nightmare rolls his eyelight. “It’s water.”

Slowly, with a flush of embarrassment, Dream takes it from him. He takes a careful sip under Nightmare’s watchful eye. The water is cool and refreshing, a frankly welcome relief to his aching throat. In quick order, Dream drains the glass and returns it to his brother’s outstretched hand. Nightmare hums his approval.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice rough with use. Nightmare doesn’t respond, but the twinge of pleasure from him is easy enough for Dream to pick up on.

Following that, Nightmare drops to his knees as well, getting eye level with Dream. Blanching at the sudden nearness, Dream reflexively pulls back but two of Nightmare’s tentacles are quick to whip into action, keeping him in place.

It’s then that Dream notices the box of wipes in his brother’s hands.

He sits, soul thumping in his chest, as Nightmare takes one out and brings it up to Dream’s face. Gentle, he uses it to wipe Dream’s mouth clean. His brother is thorough about it, making sure to clean up every trace of stickiness. He hums something tuneless under breath as he does so, absorbed in his task. With a fresh wipe, he picks up Dream’s hand and cleans that as well. He’s meticulous, making sure to dip into the spaces between Dream’s bones until they’re no longer dirtied. He repeats the same motions on Dream’s other hand, all with a soft, patient touch.

Dream is speechless.

He can’t think of what to say, an awful fondness constricting his soul. He doesn’t know what prompted this, especially after Dream so soundly turned down his earlier offer, but the weight of emotion that breaks over him is unbearable. He wants to reach out, to kiss Nightmare, to thank him, truly, but his limbs feel numb with disbelief, his soul too full to do anything but ache.

Finally done, his brother cups his face once more, repeating that same motion from before, stroking just under his socket with a thumb. It’s clearly fond, Nightmare doesn’t even try to hide the prickle of positivity emanating from him at it, before he leans in to press a soft kiss to Dream’s mouth. It’s fleeting, over so quickly that Dream doesn’t register it fast enough to reciprocate before Nightmare is back on his feet.

“There’s a change of clothes in the first drawer on the left, and I’ll leave your scarf on the desk.” Nightmare brushes off his clothes and turns away, walking in the direction of the hall. He pauses once he gets to the library doors, hesitation in the way he lingers. Whatever it is he’s considering, Dream doesn’t find out, because in the very next second he’s pulling on the ornate, metal, door knobs. “We’re having a late lunch in the dining hall. Join us once you’re ready.”

And then his brother leaves, the doors clicking shut behind him.

It takes Dream longer than strictly necessary to get back to his feet.

He makes his way immediately to his scarf, but stops short of touching it. He looks down at his sleep pants, wet with come, and winces. Even though his hands have been so carefully cleaned, it wouldn’t do to put his scarf on now when the rest of his clothes are still dirty. Not willing to risk it, Dream opens up the drawer Nightmare directed him to and spots black ensemble within. He pulls it out and quickly changes into the outfit, only pausing in between to clean his pelvis with the wipes his brother left on the desk. Once changed, he smooths the material down over himself, unsure about how he must look.

The outfit is clearly expensive, just like Nightmare’s silk sleeping clothes had been. The fabric is soft and lightweight, but with an obvious refined make to it. It has thick, white stitching along the seams, standing out against the black in a pattern of skillful designs. To highlight the white accents especially, there’s embroidery on the cuffs, all the phases of the moon displayed in beautiful symmetry.

Worrying the hem of the garment between his fingers, Dream wonders again about Nightmare dressing him in what are distinctly his own clothes. Is there meaning behind it? Or is Dream simply reading too much into this?

Dream forces the complicated thoughts from his mind. It’ll do no good to work himself up over this when there’s no way to get a straight answer. He takes a breath to ground himself and instead directs his attention back towards his scarf.

He places a hand on it, feeling the soft, well-worn fabric under his touch. As soon as he picks it up, a shower of relief soaks through him. He’s so grateful to have it back. He hasn’t been parted from it for more than a few days at a time at most in centuries and, even then, it had always been close by. Waking up without it had plied him with anxiety. Having it safe in his hands again settles some restless part of him.

Dream pulls it close, burying his face into it with a sigh of content.

It’s then that he notices the new layer of magic to it.

Retreating with a start, Dream stares down at his cape once more. With careful motions, he unfolds it fully. His sockets widen as he does so.

It’s been washed. The mark his brother left on it last night, oily black with his dripping form, has been erased completely. Not only that, but his scarf has been mended of many of the nips and tears he hadn’t yet had time to fix. His cape has been magicked for years—Dream had done it centuries ago to make sure it withstood the test of time—but there’s a fresh addition to that as well, reinforcing his own intent with one that Dream recognises intimately.

Nightmare.

There’s nothing sinister about the magic, nothing that even comes close to malicious intent. It’s simply an added mantle of protection in tune with Dream’s own, keeping the cape safe from most damages. It’s time-consuming magic, but practical, with no way to force virulent intent. Dream periodically redid it, to keep the magic viable, though it had been quite a while since his last refresher.

To know that his brother not only noticed, but took the time to painstakingly fix it himself…

Dream’s phalanges tremble, the image of his scarf blurring as tears line his vision.

“Heh, crybaby,” he chides himself with a laugh, wiping his sockets with the back of his sleeve.

He appreciates his newly mended scarf a while longer, brushing his phalanges over the material with gratitude, before finally wrapping it around his shoulders. He picks up his brooch from the desk as well, affixing his cape in place. With it encircling him once more, Dream stands taller, more sure of himself. The fabric settles comfortably on him, a familiar weight to it that has long since become a part of him.

Smiling, Dream makes his way out of the library.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you following along, I took a break from LtPH so I could focus on writing 'a taste of sunshine' with the lovely Lyra. 😌👏 (And if this is the first you're hearing of it and you haven't read it yet, please do! :D) All my spare writing time went into that, so this chapter was half complete for quite a while. Finally completing this chapter renewed my energy though, and I'm really excited to use my new free time to get right back into it!! >:3
> 
> Thank you all, as always, for sticking around! I hope you'll continue to enjoy where this story goes :")


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